His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. Little by little the pool cleared, the whims vanished: so that both Ruth and the doctor, by the middle of the third week, began to accept Spurlock's actions as normal, whereas there was still a mote or two which declined to settle, still a kink in the gray matter that refused to straighten out. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. ‘Don’t dare call her that to my face. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship.
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